


when spring comes

by windfalling



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-08-12 16:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7941757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfalling/pseuds/windfalling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>For all of her shortcomings, she’s always been a good actress. </i> Elizabeth has a plan: to marry, and to marry well. [Regency AU]</p><p>A determined baronet’s daughter with a hidden past, a merchant who is not who he seems to be, a mysterious viscount with answers and secrets of his own, and at the end of it all, a marriage--but not the marriage she expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello, I'm back and ignoring canon harder than ever and what better way to do that than with a new AU???
> 
> Anyway, I'm having a lot of fun with this, but also please forgive me for the anachronisms and the historical inaccuracy (I'm taking _so_ many liberties with the time period, guys, I am so sorry to all historians out there and to anyone who is familiar with the Regency/Georgian era). That being said, feel free to yell at me for any egregious errors I've made.
> 
> Just a **warning** , though--
> 
> This fic is very much not Tom Keen-friendly or Tom/Liz-friendly (despite how it appears at first!). I strongly recommend that you do not read this if you are uncomfortable with portrayals of him as an antagonist. Along those lines, the first half of this fic is vaguely modeled after S1 events, and Tom is in this fic (at least for a while), as is Tom/Liz. I will do my best to provide any relevant content warnings before each chapter. (And there is a fair bit of him in this first chapter, I know, I _know_ , I'm sorry.)
> 
> …I’ve also taken this opportunity to indulge in a minor S1 crackship. I have no regrets. 
> 
> If there are any concerns regarding how I’ve portrayed something/someone, or about my writing in general, I’m open to (constructive) criticism and discussion.

 

The past few months of Elizabeth’s life have led up to this:

The lively music of the ball, outpaced only by the rhythm of her heart. Young women—many younger than her, _girls_ , even—dancing in perfect twirls and sidesteps, bright-faced and breathless. Members of the _ton_ wearing the most expensive gowns, gliding across the floor with effortless regality. Men of all ages scribbling on dance cards, claiming the next set.

Then there is Elizabeth: twenty years of age at her first Season, her best gown a year outdated, her reticule clutched tightly in her hand. That she is not alone is her only comfort—Meera Malik, niece to the Marquis of Ainesbury, stands at her side.

 _The marriage mart is a battleground_ , Lord Ainesbury had proclaimed before they left, partly in jest. Lady Ainesbury had not been so blunt, but had given them well-meaning advice of her own. _Do not be discouraged, but keep your hopes at bay_. _It will be difficult, for the both of you,_ she had said, her eyes resting on her niece. _But I have faith._

It is not the same, the _difficulties_ of a poor white baronet’s daughter and a half-Indian woman—granddaughter of an earl or not—coming out into society. But they had been friends as children, and remained as such, even after all the years they’d spent apart. Elizabeth would stand beside Meera no matter what, and she knew Meera would do the same. In a battleground, it is important to have allies, and Meera is hers.

Lady Ainesbury guides them over to a few of the other chaperones, mothers with varying degrees of ambition for their daughters and sons, who look at Elizabeth appraisingly. Elizabeth smiles and nods as the proper introductions are given, but her attention wanders back to the centre of the floor. Her eyes have adjusted, now. The intimidating, almost idyllic picture of the ball comes into messy focus: the dancing is peppered with stepped toes and stifled winces, one of the violinists is a bar behind the others, and there are more wallflowers than there should be, the uneven ratio of men and women becoming alarmingly apparent.

All the young women with a single goal: to make a marriage match.

Hers is no different. But she could not burden Meera’s family for much longer, and the alternative—

Elizabeth thinks of all the funds spent on physicians and apothecaries, directed from her own pocket. The months spent in mourning. The single, damning fact that she, an unmarried women, was now alone.

So her plan: to marry, and to marry well. Her timeframe: by the end of this Season. There is no other alternative.

She turns her attention back to the women, catching the thread of their gossip. They’re discussing something about a viscount returning after more than a decade, a dead wife and daughter, devolving into wild rumours of the nature of his absence that paints him as some disreputable rogue. Then one of the women suddenly frowns, shifting the conversation away.

“You would think he would have some sort of _propriety_ , not dancing at a ball with the number of young ladies waiting around!”

Elizabeth follows the line of gossip and looks at the man in question, who was, indeed, standing off to the side and not dancing. Somehow, he had managed to avoid being wrangled into a set. Her gaze is drawn to his hair—an unusual shade amongst the sea of brown and blonde.

Beside her, Meera tenses.

Lady Ailesbury glances in his direction. “Who? Are you speaking of Lord Morton’s son?”

“Are you acquainted with him, Meera?” asks Elizabeth in a low voice, so that the other women do not hear.

“I am,” she replies, voice clipped. “I am not familiar with the man next to him, though.”

At that moment, Lord Morton’s son glances in their direction, and the two men make their way over.

“Miss Malik.”

Meera dips into a shallow curtsy, and Elizabeth quickly follows. “Mr. Ressler, may I present Miss Elizabeth Keen. My aunt is sponsoring her for the Season. Elizabeth, this is Mr. Donald Ressler.”

Mr. Ressler introduces them to his acquaintance, a man named Tom Keen. He’s a merchant, venturing out into the city for the first time. He may not be part of the gentry, but he is closer to her in status than most of the other people in the room.

Mr. Keen smiles at her with easy familiarity, bending to press a kiss to her gloved hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

 

 

 

 

Before the ball, Elizabeth had fretted over her hair and gown by her dressing table, saying to her maid, panic pitching her voice higher and higher: _I don’t know how to do any of this, and I’m nearly one-and-twenty._

It hadn’t been her father’s fault, of course, and he’d tried to teach her as much as he could before his illness had overtook him. She remembers those days where he’d tried to teach her how to sew after she’d run off her third governess, but he had turned out to be even worse at it than she had been. So he stuck to the things he knew: horse-riding, reading and writing, and even, at one point, how to shoot. Her father had liked puzzles, too, and taught her how to write and read ciphers. It had been a fun thing to do between the two of them, to write each other secret letters only they knew how to read.

(That had been _before_ , though. Before the recurrent illnesses, each period of recovery shorter and weaker than the rest.)

She’s decent at the pianoforte, but it is only because of Meera and her impromptu lessons that her embroidery is not the unmitigated disaster it had been before. _I’ve no idea how to court a man,_ Elizabeth had said, too, and her maid had burst into giggles.

 _Don’t you worry, that’s his job!_ Becca had let a few curls loose from Elizabeth’s up-do to frame her face, then patted her cheeks lightly with rouge. _All you have to do is smile._

How she regrets it, not listening to her governesses. She cringes to remember how she’d behaved as a child, the stress she had put upon her father. _If only I had known—_ no. There is no room for that kind of thinking, now. Not here, in the ballroom, with her future in her hands, fragile and malleable. Not here, where she feels an imposter in her worn muslin, where she feels more a girl than a woman, unbalanced and out of step.

So for now, Elizabeth watches. How Meera wears her grace like armour, her head lifted high and her spine straight. How long the lady in yellow holds her partner’s gaze, and how the one in white brushes her hand by her ear, the picture of innocence. How to strike that delicate balance—to invite courtship, not seduction.

When Mr. Keen asks her for the next dance, she curves her mouth into a smile. Looks at him for one beat, two. Then lowers her eyes.

For all of her shortcomings, she’s always been a good actress.

 

 

 

 

“Well? Is London society everything you had hoped for?” Meera asks in between sets.

“It's—” _Exhausting_ , Elizabeth thinks, and misses home more than ever. “Extravagant,” she says aloud.

“I still can't believe you gave Lady Margaret the cut direct. She will not forgive you for that.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “She cut you first.” The insult had been a subtle one, and she would have forgiven the barb against her, but not the one against Meera, who had stiffened and withdrawn in response. Who had looked at _Elizabeth_ with a certain wariness, too. After that, Elizabeth had not cared what political or social missteps she made.

“I appreciate your support, that will not endear you to her side of the _ton_. It’s alright, Elizabeth, really.” It is a quiet reminder that Meera has already been through this before, and without her.

Still, though—“No one who treats you like that is worth associating with.”

Meera sighs softly, almost in resignation. But she’s smiling, just a little. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A small pause. Then, with a grin, “Did you see the look on her face? Her eyes—”

“I thought she was going to hurl her lemonade at me! I had an old governess who made the _exact same face_ —”

Elizabeth twists her face in an exaggerated imitation, and Meera bursts into laughter.

 

 

 

 

“That Mr. Keen seems to have taken an interest in you, Elizabeth,” Lady Ainesbury remarks the next morning.

Elizabeth had danced her first set with Mr. Keen, her second with Lord Swanthorpe (who had one drink too much and kept stomping on her toes), her third with Mr. Ressler (who was taciturn and stiff-shouldered), and the supper dance again with Mr. Keen. That he had chosen the _supper_ dance and become her dining partner for the evening is—not insignificant.

He had been easy to talk to, filling in the spaces where they would have lapsed into an awkward silence. He did not talk endlessly about himself, as Lord Swanthorpe had, but asked about her as well. When he smiled at her, she had found herself smiling back.

“He seemed agreeable,” Meera chimes in. “At supper, do you remember that story he was telling us, about that mishap with the dog at the park? Even Mr. Ressler laughed at that.”

“Speaking of Mr. Ressler—” Elizabeth begins, cutting off in a wince as Meera’s foot digs into hers.

“He danced with the both of you, did he not?” Lady Ainesbury says. He had, though he had not nearly been as uncommunicative with Meera. “It’s a shame, what happened to him last Season, the poor man.”

Elizabeth’s brow rises further, and she glances sidelong at her friend. _Later,_ Meera mouths at her.

“I think he might call on you,” Lady Ainesbury says to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth blinks. “Mr. _Ressler_?” He had looked so uncomfortable and uninterested in dancing with her that she had seriously considered feigning an ankle twist to put them both out of their misery.

“No—Mr. Keen. He danced two sets with you.” Unspoken is the implication that he would be a good match for her, if he decided to court her.

A merchant—untitled, but wealthy. That’s all that matters in the end, isn’t it? A bed to sleep in, food on the table, a reliable roof over her head. And he had seemed agreeable.

Lady Ainesbury rises from the table. “We’ll be attending the Abbertons’ dinner party tomorrow,” Lady Ainesbury says. “Perhaps we shall see him there.”

 

 

 

 

After the dinner party, one more ball, and a trip to the theatre, it is no longer a question of _if_ Mr. Keen is interested in Elizabeth, but _when_ he will offer for her. After the dinner party, he had begun to court her outright, calling upon her at the Ainesbury estate on multiple occasions, and even delivering flowers to her once. His proposal—even, it seems to Elizabeth, their _marriage_ —is an inevitability.

She doesn’t understand. It’s been little more than a fortnight since the start of the Season. She had expected to spend months finding a suitor, not weeks. “Count it as a blessing,” Lady Ainesbury had said when Elizabeth confided in her, “that you have found a good match so quickly.”

How fortunate, she means, to have found someone who is not only wealthy, but handsome and amiable. Someone whose hands do not wander when they touch her, whose eyes are not cold and dismissive. He is, perhaps, a bit of a flirt, but he doesn’t have the reputation of a rake or a scoundrel.

He is a safe prospect. Safe, and secure.

Elizabeth had asked him once why he had taken such an interest in her, during one of the sets they’d chosen to sit out.

“You’re different from the others,” Mr. Keen had said, gesturing toward the crowd. “More down-to-earth, like you aren’t afraid to be yourself. It’s what I like most about you, Miss Scott.”

It had been a compliment, she supposes, that he saw something else in her that he didn’t in the other women. A small part of her had felt a pinch of guilt, too, at his underlying assumption that she was more genuine the others, as if she had not chosen him for his financial prospects, as if she had not changed the things she said or did in response his reactions.

But all she remembers is looking out at them—the ladies with the sharp eyes and composed smiles, each movement deliberate; the carefree heiresses and languid aristocrats; the young ladies at their first season, bright-eyed and flushed and hungry for love; the spinsters on the sidelines, watching with what could be envy or relief or neither one of them.

She remembers seeing some reflection of herself in each one and thinking, _I am no different._

But he had meant well, and she had understood his perspective, so she pushed her disappointment aside and accepted his compliment with a smile.

 

 

 

 

“Every time Aunt Martha sees you, she looks like she’s planning the wedding breakfast already,” Meera remarks dryly.

Elizabeth flushes. “That’s a little premature, don’t you think?”

“Not really. He’s been openly courting you for weeks now.” Meera pauses, looking at her carefully. “Do you like him?”

So perceptive, her friend. Elizabeth focuses intently on her embroidery. “Mr. Keen is agreeable.”

“Yes, I know,” Meera says, amused.

“I just think—it’s happening a little quickly. That’s all.”

Meera is quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is gentle. “Elizabeth… Did he behave improperly? Toward you?”

Elizabeth’s head snaps up, her stitches forgotten on her lap. “No,” she says immediately. “No, he’s been perfectly courteous.”

“It doesn’t have to be him, if you don’t want it to be,” Meera says, considering. “There are always others.”

“Like Mr. Ressler?” Elizabeth says with a grin. “You never did tell me anything about him.”

Meera is suddenly very interested in adjusting her embroidery circle. “There’s nothing to tell. We’re friends. And don’t change the subject.”

Elizabeth makes herself imagine it: his proposal, the wedding arrangements, marrying and moving in with him. The twisting in her stomach is a good sign, she tells herself, like butterflies.

Her heels have lifted a fraction off the floor. She pushes them down firmly.

“He’s a good man,” Elizabeth says, almost to herself.

Meera doesn’t press further.

  


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth weaves through the crowd and heads straight for the balcony.

She needs air. Or ice for her trampled toes. Mostly, she needs to be _out_ of the room, but leaving the estate entirely is out of the question with Meera and Lady Ainesbury still there, so the balcony will have to do.

She’s in a terrible mood.

At the beginning of the night, she’d found out that Mr. Keen was out of town. It hadn’t been his absence that bothered her, but the fact that his absence _didn’t_ bother her—it had, in fact, left her irrationally relieved.

Then she’d failed to avoid Lord Swanthorpe and had to suffer through a set with him and his wandering hands and clumsy feet. To make things worse, he had later attempted to ask her for another dance. Meera, who had seen the undoubtedly desperate look on Elizabeth’s face, came to the rescue by ‘accidentally’ spilling her drink all over his waistcoat. Elizabeth had felt a tiny twinge of guilt until Lord Swanthorpe snapped at Meera in a most ungentlemanly fashion, and the only thing that saved him from evisceration was Lady Ainesbury’s hand on Elizabeth’s arm in warning.

The littlest things, too, had begun to set her off. The heat in the room. The tiny drink glasses. Lady Ainesbury’s frown. The murmur of the crowd.

She’d sat out the next set, only half-listening to the gossip of the ladies sitting next to her, when she’d seen Lady Margaret coming near. In the mood Elizabeth was in, she knew she would end up saying something she would regret.

So she’d left.

Now, Elizabeth closes her eyes, leaning against the railing of the balcony. Underneath her gown, her chemise sticks uncomfortably to her skin. Her fingers rub at the sweat behind her neck, smoothing away damp strands of hair. The cool, night air is a pleasant comfort. She breathes deeply and slowly, pushing away all thoughts of marriage and money.

Someone clears their throat quietly.

Elizabeth startles and swings around, eyes flying open. There’s a man standing in the corner, lurking in the shadows. Perhaps not _lurking_ , Elizabeth thinks, retracting the uncharitable thought. It isn’t his fault she hadn’t noticed him. But there he is nonetheless, leaning casually against the railing, an elbow resting against the stone.

He’s older than her, she notices. How much older, she’s not certain. Only moonlight illuminates his face, the warm glow of the candles inside not quite reaching him. But she can see his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze, the weight of it, holds her still.

She stays frozen for a long, silent moment. Then he opens his mouth to say something, and she snaps into action.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she says, curtsying at once, and she doesn’t have to guess at his status. It’s in the way he carries himself, the curl of his hand around the bar of the railing, the tilt of his head, almost regal. Appraising her. “I didn’t know anyone else was out here.”

Elizabeth goes, with great reluctance, back toward the doors of the balcony.

“Wait,” the man says, straightening, but not moving toward her. “Please, stay.”

Maybe it is the _please_ , or that he hadn’t tried to reach for her, or that the low, warm timbre of his voice had surprised her. Maybe it is all of those things, or none of them.

Elizabeth turns around.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says apologetically.

“I think I was the one who disturbed you, my lord,” she says wryly, the corner of her mouth turning up. He smiles in return, and she feels the warmth of it down to her toes.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced. My name is Raymond Reddington.”

Elizabeth hesitates, darting a quick glance to the doors. She can imagine the look on Lady Ainesbury’s face, were she to discover them. But his name is familiar, and her chaperone is not here, and walking out on a lord is far more improper than speaking to one without an introduction—so she stays.

“Elizabeth Scott,” she says.

If she had not been so focused on his face, if her vision had not adjusted to the dark, if she had chosen to blink at that moment, she would have missed it: the flicker of surprise, the falter of his smile, the quiet intake of breath. She sees all of these things in the second it takes for him to regain his composure, so smoothly that she wonders if she’d imagined it.

He knows her, somehow. By name, not by sight. And he had seen her earlier, when she’d thought herself alone, and let her guard down.

She does not like being at a disadvantage. “Do you attend many of these functions, my lord?”

It is a polite, subtle way of saying: _I don’t recognise you at all._ His mouth quirks.

“I did, many years ago. This is the first I’ve attended since my return,” he says, and in answer to the quizzical look on her face, “I’ve been traveling on the Continent.”

“For so long?” She looks at him more closely. “Are you an officer?”

“I was,” he replies, after a pause.

“My father was an officer, too. He never spoke much of it, though.” Her throat goes tight. A bad idea, this line of questioning. Thinking of her father makes her think of the home she left behind. When she was younger, she’d always hated it, the small town, the tiny house. Now, all she can think of is returning.

But that life, that home—it is no longer hers. She wears the price of it on her body: a house for a few gowns and a trip to London.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She thanks him, drawing in an unsteady breath as she does. He takes a step toward her, and she does not think she will be able to bear it if he were to attempt to comfort her. So she forces a smile on her face and asks, “Are you not fond of dancing, my lord?”

If he notices that her smile is too sharp, too wide, he does not comment upon it. “I am, but sometimes I prefer to admire the music in peace.”

Her mouth relaxes into something more genuine. “Yes, they can be quite persistent,” she says, imagining him with a throng of debutantes around him, vying for his attention. Elizabeth considers the quality of his clothing, the weight of his undivided attention, the subtle gravity he possesses—yes, he would be a popular prospect. _And he has a lovely smile_ , she thinks. 

“Ruthlessly so,” he agrees with a laugh. “And you?”

Her eyes widen. “Me?” She hadn’t come out here for him, she hadn’t even _known_ who he was, but she had been thinking of his mouth just now, and maybe he’d noticed—

He looks amused. Inside, the violins come to a stop, signaling the end of the set. “Are you not fond of dancing, Miss Scott?” he asks, returning her question to her.

She flushes deeply. But she recovers quickly, and she finds herself saying, “Only if my partner is a good dancer.”

It sounds like an invitation. Sure enough, his eyebrows rise. Elizabeth is suddenly more aware than ever that they are alone. It is an open balcony, but they are both standing off to the side, and with the music gone, she can hear her own breathing, her own pulse in her ears.

The violins begin again. Lord Reddington looks at her intently. Then he holds his hand out, palm upward.

“Here?” she blurts out.

Something in his expression goes soft. “I promise not to step on your toes.” Then he pauses, considering. “But if you don’t want to, there’s no need to orchestrate some elaborate plan involving spilled lemonade. I’m quite fond of this jacket, and my valet would not be too pleased with me if I ruined it.”

Her face heats again when she realises that he’d been watching her. “I—” she hesitates. Then she places her hand in his, for once not out of courtesy or obligation or calculation, but because she _wants_ to. His gloved fingers curl around hers, and she draws in a breath. She steps closer—

“Elizabeth! There you are, I’ve been—”

Meera pulls up short at the entrance, eyes going wide at the sight of them, hands clasped. Elizabeth jerks away, but Lord Reddington remains entirely unfazed.

“Meera,” Elizabeth says, guilt written on her face and in her voice. Then, striving to recover some sense of propriety, “Lord Reddington, may I present—”

Meera looks at her incredulously. Lord Reddington coughs lightly next to her, which sounds suspiciously like a stifled laugh. “Aunt Martha is coming this way, and if she sees you…” Meera trails off with a meaningful look.

Oh, God. Elizabeth blanches. She takes a hurried step toward Meera, but Lord Reddington suddenly moves toward her. “Miss Scott.”

“My lord—” She stops at the look on his face, all traces of amusement gone.

He says, voice low, “Be careful around Tom Keen.”

Her hands go cold. Then Meera pulls her away, and all Elizabeth can do is glance back at him before they go inside.

Meera leads her to the other side of the room to mingle with the other ladies in their circle. She follows blindly. When Lady Ainesbury finds her and asks where she’s been, Elizabeth uses the restroom as an excuse.

“She hasn’t been feeling well,” Meera says, and the worried look on her face is genuine.

Lady Ainesbury frowns, peering closely at Elizabeth. “Yes, you do look a little pale, Elizabeth. Shall we retire early?”

“No, no, I don’t want to spoil your night,” Elizabeth says hastily. “I can return by myself.”

Meera narrows her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll go send for the stagecoach.”

Elizabeth searches the crowd for Lord Reddington before they leave. But she doesn’t see him, and she isn’t foolish enough to check the balcony again, not with Lady Ainesbury watching her.

For the rest of the night, his warning echoes in her head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone's wondering when this takes place (because i admittedly have been shuffling my feet on this), it's the summer of 1814, after Napoleon's been exiled to Elba.

 

“What news has you so occupied, Elizabeth?” Meera asks, looking at the newspaper in Elizabeth’s hands as she sorts through her own letters.

“Oh, just—the war, you know, France,” Elizabeth replies vaguely. In truth, she had flipped straight to the gossip column. It is, perhaps, not the most reliable source of information, or the kindest. The only time she’d been mentioned was after that incident with Lady Margaret, and the author had taken a perverse sort of glee in highlighting the severity of her _faux pas_.

Now, though, she skims through the passage, searching for a specific name—there. _The most exciting event of the Ralsburg Ball was the arrival of the elusive Viscount Reddington. His sudden return to London Society after so many years makes one wonder if he is in the market for a new Viscountess_ —

“The war… in France?” Meera says slowly, her lips twitching. “Surely you mean America, unless Napoleon has managed to escape exile, which would be quite dire news, indeed.”

Elizabeth pauses, then says with a straight face, “I meant about the return of our soldiers, _from_ France, of course. Did you know, Meera, what horrific conditions they have been made to live in—?”

“That article was in yesterday’s paper, you liar,” Meera accuses, snatching it from her, and then lets out a triumphant _ha!_ when she sees what page Elizabeth is reading. “Well, I suppose that drama with Eleanor and Miss Johnson _is_ somewhat of a battle. But you’ve never taken an interest in petty gossip, so you must be looking for…”

“ _Meera._ ”

“‘Who will be the debutante to capture this rogue widower’s heart?’” she reads, utterly delighted. “I daresay that you have a head-start, Elizabeth, with all that secret dancing on the balcony.”

“We were not—” Elizabeth breaks off, pausing. “He was married?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“I hadn’t read that far,” she admits, and Meera hands the paper back to her, a smug grin on her face.

“I don’t know why you’re being so secretive about it. It’s alright, you know. He _is_ rather intriguing. Worry not, though, for _I_ am not personally interested in him.”

“I am not—” Elizabeth huffs. “You’re impossible.” She reads the rest of the column, only a couple sentences that mention a wife and daughter lost to a tragic accident, and the arson of his main estate only a few years back. It tells her nothing of how he might be connected with Tom Keen, but she hadn’t expected it to.

“You haven’t heard of anything about Mr. Keen, have you? Any strange rumours about him?”

Meera doesn’t look up from her letter, a small frown on her face. “Not that I recall. Why, have you?”

Elizabeth sets the paper aside. “It’s nothing.”

 

 

 

 

The rest of the day is spent walking through the shops in central London. Meera visits the modiste she frequents, and Elizabeth lingers by the entrance, fingers brushing against the expensive silk. A tiny burst of envy rises in her throat; she swallows it down.

It isn’t the extravagant dresses or the pearls or the jewels or the lace, not really—it would have been nice, she thinks, to have been able to afford a new mourning gown instead of dying her best ones black, but that’s not what she wants. She wants the way Meera hands over her banknotes without blinking, secure in her wealth and heritage. A family to go home to, who will support her no matter what.

_Don’t laugh at me,_ Meera had said a few nights ago, sitting on Elizabeth’s bed, _but my parents—there was some difficulty, my father being—well, you know. But they married for love. And maybe I’m being naive, but I… I want that. So much._

_You aren’t being naive_ , Elizabeth had responded, even though she had long given up on making a love match for herself, the idea foreign and impractical. Unthinkable, except on those sleepless nights when all her buried thoughts and desires come to the forefront, self-pitying and filled with longing. _I want you to be happy,_ she had said, and meant it.

Meera’s eyes had grown sad, then, her hand resting on Elizabeth’s. _I want you to be happy, too._

As they walk down the street, however, it does not escape Elizabeth’s notice that there are a few shopkeepers who hover cautiously by the entrance when they pass by. The signs, too, above a few of the doors. She remembers how Meera had reacted, once, when Elizabeth had wanted to look at the bonnets at a certain milliner shop. The way Meera had frozen at the entrance, mouth pinched. The moment Elizabeth realised that whenever they’d gone shopping together, Meera had only ever gone to the same stores each time.

“What’s that look on your face for?” Meera says now, nudging her.

“It’s just the weather.” Elizabeth hooks her arm through Meera’s. “I was hoping the sun would come out.”

Meera casts a sidelong glance at her, quiet for a moment. “As long as it doesn’t rain, I’m happy.”

Elizabeth glances up at the darkening clouds. “I think we’d better hurry home soon, then.”

As they walk toward their coach, she catches a glimpse of a familiar figure walking down the street. She isn’t sure if it’s him—not when she can only see his back, and not when she hasn’t seen him out during the day.

“You go on ahead, Meera, I’ll go back a little later,” Elizabeth says quickly, already following him, her legs setting off at a brisk pace to catch up.

“But—the rain!”

“I’ll be fine!”

Elizabeth doesn’t look back to see if Meera’s gone. She loses track of him at first, but then she sees him turning the corner, ducking into… a gentleman’s shop.

She hovers a few feet away at the corner, and the reality of it hits her: she’s following a man she barely knows, a man who seems to know more about her than he should, and she’s _hiding_. Behind a wall.

Before she can reflect further on her behaviour and retreat, he exits the store, walks a few paces down, and enters a bookshop. She hesitates.

_Be careful around Tom Keen._

Elizabeth follows him inside.

 

 

 

 

“I’d hoped to see you again, Miss Scott,” says someone behind her, and it’s the second time he’s managed to surprise her somehow, even when _she_ was the one who was following him. Lord Reddington smiles at her. “What a coincidence, that we should be at the same bookseller at this very same moment.”

“It’s Providence,” she agrees. There’s a wry twist to his mouth, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. She hadn’t been as sneaky as she thought she’d been, apparently. “I’m in the market for new reading material,” she says, gesturing to the book she’d grabbed blindly from the shelf earlier in her panic.

His brows rise. “ _English Botany: Coloured Figures of British Plants_ ,” he reads slowly, and she struggles not to whip her gaze to the book she’s holding. “I had no idea you were so scientifically minded. And the twentieth volume, nonetheless.”

“Yes, well,” she fumbles, a flush rising to her cheeks, “I find plants quite… fascinating. And the illustrations, you know, are quite helpful.”

“Ah, have a passion for gardening, do you?”

“It’s, uh, more of a—a beginner’s interest, I would say, my lord. I like to be well-informed.” She struggles not to glare at the offending book. Or at his widening grin. “But perhaps I will save it for another day,” she says, and returns the book to its shelf.

“You aren’t purchasing it?”

“I’ve spent too much today already, I’m afraid,” she says, he glances down at her empty hands.

Lord Reddington steps closer to her, and she blinks at his proximity, but he only reaches to take that accursed book out again. “Your passionate investment into the art of gardening is an inspiration, Miss Scott. Allow me to contribute to it,” he says, lifting the volume in his hand.

She freezes, eyes wide. “Wait. You can’t mean to—”

“Consider it a gift,” he says cheerfully. “I insist.”

“I cannot possibly accept, my lord. Really, I am not so passionate about it as you think,” she says, a note of panic creeping into her voice. Then, “It would not be appropriate. We haven’t even been properly introduced yet.”

He pauses, angling his head in consideration. “Very well,” he concedes, then suddenly asks, “Do you like Shakespeare?”

“I have his plays,” she says quickly, before he can offer to buy her _those_ as well. In truth, she only owns one of them.

“Drury Lane is putting on a production of _Romeo and Juliet._ ” There’s a subtle shift to his demeanor, the rhythm of his voice halting, hesitant. “I have a private box.”

“You’re inviting me to the theatre?” The gossip column from earlier leaps to the forefront of her mind, and she feels the heat rising to her cheeks again. She could dismiss the events of the ball to circumstance and courtesy; an unprompted invitation, delivered personally to her, is another thing entirely.

“I am acquainted with Ainesbury. His wife is sponsoring you, is she not?” He rocks back on his heels, head tilted. “It would be a small party, should they accept. And it would all be very proper. We might even be introduced at last,” he says with a smile.

He has no way of knowing that _Romeo and Juliet_ is her favourite play, that she still owns the copy her governess had given her, the pages worn lovingly at the edges. If it were any other work, she tells herself, his offer would not have been so tempting. If it were any other _person_ , she thinks—and stops herself there, because she already has a suitor, she has decided upon him, and a widower appearing halfway through the Season to cast doubt upon her choice was never part of the plan, no matter how much she likes the sound of his voice.

“I’d love to go,” she says softly.

He beams at her. “Excellent.”

“But first—I came in here to ask you something.”

“Not for the plants? I’m flattered.” He’s still smiling, but something in his posture tenses, the loose line of his shoulder gone taut.

“How do you know Mr. Keen?” At his silence, she adds, “Why did you warn me about him? Is there something I should know? Is he dangerous?”

“He’s not the man you think he is,” Lord Reddington says at last.

“You do realise that tells me nothing.”

That prompts his smile to return, briefly. “He is dangerous. That’s what you should know, and that’s why I warned you about him.”

“But _why_ is he dangerous?” The shopkeeper glances over at them. Elizabeth lowers her voice and steps as close to him as she dares, less than an arm’s length away. “Is he some sort of criminal, or—or how do I know that you aren’t just making this up?”

“You don’t. You’ll just have to trust that I’m telling you the truth.”

“I barely know you. I’ve only just met you a few days ago, and I’ve known Mr. Keen for more than a month. He has been nothing but respectable thus far. ”

“And yet you came looking for confirmation of your own doubts,” he says evenly. “I beg your pardon, but may I just say, Miss Scott, that if you’ve known him for so long, and if your opinion of him is so easily shaken, then perhaps you should question your own lack of trust in him and why that is.”

They look at each other for a long, tense moment.

She tilts her head to mirror his. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

His gaze shifts away, distracted by a man standing outside the shop by the window. “My apologies, Miss Scott, I have business to attend to.”

“Lord Reddington—”

“Come to the play,” he says before he leaves. “You’ll find the answer you’re looking for then.”


	4. Chapter 4

“It was quite kind of him to invite Aunt Martha and I along, you know, even if it was just an excuse to go with you,” Meera says, adjusting a loose pin in her hair. She’s sitting at her dressing table, peering at herself in the mirror, while Becca begins lacing Elizabeth’s corset. “I shall have to devise a way for you to speak alone with him in return. Perhaps you could sit with him in the row in front of us? Surely that would not be too improper. Or—Elizabeth? Are you listening?”

“He told me Mr. Keen was dangerous,” Elizabeth suddenly says, the end of her sentence cutting off in a gasp as her maid tugs a little too hard. Becca immediately apologises and loosens the strings.

“Dangerous?” Meera twists around, eyebrows raised. “Lord Reddington said this to you?”

Elizabeth nods, twisting her hair into a simple updo. “He told me that I should be careful, and that Mr. Keen isn’t who I think he is.”

Meera purses her lips, looking thoughtful. “Are you sure he means _your_ Mr. Keen? Perhaps he was referring to someone else.”

“He’s not mine,” Elizabeth says, nudging Meera out of the chair with her hip so she can sit and look into the mirror. “And I am quite certain.”

“That’s rather ominous. Did he have an explanation?”

“He’s promised me an answer at the play.” Elizabeth reaches for the ornamental hair comb on the table. It’s the same one she usually wears, a simple lace design with pearls and gilded silver, and the only thing she has left of her mother.

“Hmmm.”

“What is it?”

“What do you mean?”

Elizabeth meets Meera’s eyes in the mirror. “You went, _hmmm_. That always means something.”

“Well, I mean, he’s clearly interested in you, isn’t he?”

Elizabeth fumbles with the comb, and Meera catches it before it falls. “I don’t—I’m not—”

Meera rolls her eyes. “Please, Elizabeth,” she says, sliding the comb back into place for her. “He’s warning you away from another man. He invited you to see a play—to a _romantic_ play—”

“He invited _all_ of us—”

“—for _you_ —”

“—more tragedy than romance—”

“Oh, don’t even start with that, you _love_ Romeo and Juliet.”

“I’m just saying,” Elizabeth huffs, “that I don’t want to make any assumptions. Besides, I’m—” Not even engaged, she thinks. Promised? But that isn’t the right word, either. Mr. Keen hasn’t proposed, but his actions have said enough, haven’t they?

“And _I’m_ just saying,” Meera says, suddenly serious, “that it’s a bit suspect. Mr. Keen seems like a good man. Lord Reddington could be right, or he could be wrong. Perhaps he’s being altruistic in warning you, or he isn’t. Just—keep your eyes open, yes?”

It would be easier, she thinks, if he were wrong. She would have no reason to hesitate anymore. They could marry, and she could live in security if not in happiness, and she could come to love him eventually, couldn’t she?

She doesn’t know if she wants Lord Reddington to be right about Mr. Keen.

When Meera sees the expression on Elizabeth’s face, she leans down to hug her, resting her chin on the top of Elizabeth’s head. “I’ve spoiled the mood, haven’t I? I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about this for now.”

“No, you’re right,” Elizabeth sighs. “I’ll be careful. And Meera?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for watching out for me.”

Meera smiles softly. “Always.”

 

 

 

 

 

Lord Reddington is there when they arrive, greeting each of them warmly. When he had called upon Lord Ainesbury and made the formal introductions there, it had been a strange thing to see him reminisce with the two of them. She had only ever spoken with him alone in dark corners and small bookshops—not in the presence of others, where he had spoken with such effortless charm that she wondered if she’d overestimated his regard of her, after all.

But he had come for her, she had reminded herself. Had put in the effort of a social call and an introduction, all to invite her to the play.

Only once did his cheerful smile falter, and it had been when Meera told him that Romeo and Juliet was Elizabeth's favourite play. But it was only for a second, and she decided not to dwell upon it.

“I had the privilege of watching Sarah Siddons perform twice in my lifetime—she was truly a magnificent actress,” Lord Reddington says as he guides them to their seats, Lady Ainesbury listening with rapt attention. They debate briefly over the actress’s best character (“Surely you would agree that it is Lady Macbeth—” “If you have not seen her as Queen Catherine _,_ my lady, it is an impressive feat to make _Henry VIII_ as interesting as she did—”) before Meera and her aunt linger behind a few paces, allowing Elizabeth to walk beside him.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” he says, and she feels her face grow warm.

“I’m here for the answers you’ve promised,” she says before she thinks, and regrets it when she sees the look on his face, so genuinely pleased to see her.

But his smile only widens. “Of course,” he says. “Have patience, Miss Scott. I keep my word.”

“Is this where you tell me that you never specified _when_ you would answer my questions?”

He laughs quietly, and a dangerous lightness fills her body at the sound.

They reach their seats, and there is someone already there, rising to greet them. Lord Reddington turns to Lady Ainesbury and Meera. “I’ve taken the liberty of inviting a mutual acquaintance.”

Meera pulls up short, her mouth parted in surprise. “Don—Mr. Ressler,” she says, correcting herself quickly after a sharp look from her aunt. He nods at them, giving a terse smile in return.

Elizabeth follows Lord Reddington to their seats. “You invited Mr. Ressler.”

“I did.” His eyes flicker to Meera.

“For my friend?”

In the corner of her eye, she sees Mr. Ressler following into their row, only to be suddenly pulled out of sight—Meera’s grabbed hold of his arm, her face creased with worry, saying something that Elizabeth can’t hear and gesturing toward the row behind them. When Mr. Ressler turns away, Meera winks at Elizabeth. By some miracle, Lady Ainesbury is facing the other direction, moving toward another woman approaching from the hall. Elizabeth stifles a smile.

“Well,” Lord Reddington says, settling into his seat, “I certainly didn’t invite him for his stimulating conversation.”

They both glance at Mr. Ressler, who is now talking with Meera. His answers seem to be monosyllabic, however, as Meera has suddenly become more talkative than Elizabeth’s ever seen her.

Elizabeth shakes her head. “I heard you gossiping with Lady Ainesbury earlier. I’m beginning to think that _you_ are the biggest busybody in town.”

“You would not be half as interested in me were I not.” His head is tipped toward her with a lazy smile, but his eyes are sharp and clear. Watching—or searching—for something.

“Not true,” she says, without thinking. His eyebrows rise.

Before either of them can say anything else, Lady Ainesbury’s voice draws nearer. Elizabeth, who had unconsciously leaned toward him, straightens and faces the stage.

 

 

 

 

When she thinks of Romeo and Juliet, she thinks of three things:

First: Her father, reading it to her after she’d run off her fourth governess (who had taught in a dreadful monotone). The voices he would make for each character, and the pretend fights they would have with sticks as Tybalt and Mercutio when he was still well.

Second: Her last—and favourite—governess, the most patient of them all, who had taught the play so lovingly that Elizabeth, too, grew to love it with the romantic idealism of a young girl. Her personal copy, given to Elizabeth on her birthday, one of the few possessions Elizabeth still has. It is a source of comfort even now, after she’d left behind the romanticism of it all.

Third—

The third is the first meeting between them, the two actors drawing together, _palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss_ —their hands touching, as if in prayer, a moment before they kiss. For a moment, the actors’ voices fade into a low hum in the back of her mind as she thinks of the first time she saw him. How his fingers had curled gently around hers, his leather glove cool through the thin fabric of her own. That sudden jolt of curiosity, of anticipating the weight of his hand on her waist, of wanting to know the texture of his palm underneath those gloves.

She turns to look at him, and there are a few seconds where his attention is focused on the play, unaware of her. He smiles and laughs with the audience, glancing over at her in the next moment. He sees her watching him, and he blinks, tilting his head curiously at her. The audience laughs again, and the sound is muted to her ears. It is easy to forget, for a moment, why she's there.

 

 

 

 

But she does remember, because she has to, because she knows that if Mr. Keen were to ask for her hand in marriage, she would not be able to refuse without good reason. Not after all those dances and outings with him in public, after the flowers and the social calls, after all her prospects have narrowed to one man. She knows the public humiliation that will come if he does not offer for her, too.

_Foolish girl_ , she hears in her head, the voices of all her governesses blended with her own. Foolish, to have put all her cards in one place, when his were not yet shown.

So at intermission, she says, "Tell me."

Lord Reddington shifts in his seat, his eyes still on the stage. “Perhaps we could postpone your answer to another time, or until after the play? I don't want to spoil your viewing."

"You promised me an answer.”

"So I did," he says, and leans back into his seat with a sigh. “It’s a strange thing, coming back after so long. You expect things to be different, people to change.”

She should not have expected him to give a straight answer, she thinks. “And they haven’t? Not even after ten years?”

He pauses, mouth quirking. “It seems that I’m not the only one with my ear pressed to the grapevine,” he says, and her face grows hot as she remembers that he hadn’t told her how long he’d been gone. “People wear different clothes and inherit new titles, but the _ton_ never changes. It is as predictable as it is insufferable. The Ralsburg invitations are still coveted by every fresh-faced debutante looking to charm their way to the top. Swanthorpe continues to inflict his terrible dancing upon any poor woman unfortunate enough to catch his eye. And Charles Templeton is as much of an irresponsible drunkard and scoundrel as he was when we were your age—you may know him as the Earl of Hadfield.”

“I am not familiar with him.”

“His daughter is about your age. Lady Margaret, I believe?”

Elizabeth stiffens, remembering the slight made against her and her outright cruelty toward Meera, not just recently, but during Meera’s first Season as well. “I don’t see what she has to do with this, my lord.”

“They hold a great amount of influence and power by name alone, but even a title with all its privileges has its limits. Rumour has it that Hadfield has gambled away his entire inheritance. The only thing he has left—”

“Lady Margaret,” she says heavily. Elizabeth wishes she could find some sort of vindictive joy in it, but Margaret’s situation is far too close to her own, and it is not one she would wish upon anyone.

“Yes.” His gaze shifts past her, to the audience across the theatre. She follows it along the row of boxes until it lands, just barely within her line of sight.

Lord Reddington doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Even from this distance, Mr. Keen is easily recognisable—as is the woman sitting far too close to him. The only other person in their private box appears to be a maid, sitting a fair distance from the two of them.

The wealthy Mr. Keen, with Lady Margaret.

The denial is quick to rise to her tongue—it doesn’t have to mean anything, they could be friends, they could be nothing. But he hadn’t promised her anything, had he? She thinks of every single conversation she’s had with Mr. Keen, every word exchanged in dim corners of ballrooms, everything he’s told her of himself and everything he’s asked of her. Had she read too much into his smiles, his laughter? All of his interest in her hobbies and childhood and family, had it been to determine her wealth, her worth?

Elizabeth finds herself thinking of her conversation with Meera. _Mr. Keen_ _seems like a good man._ She’s known him longer than she has Lord Reddington. She looks back at the two of them, and she does not know if she’s seeing what he wants her to see. She does not know if this and Lord Reddington’s word alone are enough to condemn him.

“It could be a coincidence,” she hears herself say.

He says, voice gentle, “This isn’t the first time they’ve been seen together. He’s been spending time with Hadfield, too, at White’s, and more recently, at Hadfield’s country home.”

“When?” Her voice trembles.

“Around the time of the Ralsburg ball.”

Mr. Keen had been out of town at the time, she remembers. Now she knows why.

“Right. I see.” She swallows thickly, curls her hands into her dress to stop them from shaking. “Of course. I’m a fool.”

Earlier, she had been uncertain of which answer she wanted to hear. Now she knows.

She wants Lord Reddington to be right, because she does not want to marry Mr. Keen.

She wants Lord Reddington to be wrong, because she cannot afford to _not_ marry her only suitor. She has no family, no home, no money—and now, no prospects. Of course he would choose Lady Margaret over her.

She had not known that having nothing could weigh so much.

“You are not a fool,” Lord Reddington says, suddenly insistent. “This is not on you, Miss Scott. Not at all.”

She shakes her head. “So he’s a rake. I should have known better, should have recognised—”

“Miss Scott, please, look at me. Miss—”

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, being a governess. She’s always liked children. Meera had mentioned the idea of being a companion, and maybe that would not be so unbearable either, with the right—

“ _Elizabeth._ ”

It has the intended effect: her head snaps around to him, and she’s too startled by the use of her given name to berate him for it. His hand rests atop hers, and she stares at it before he says her name again, gentler, but still insistent, the force of his will pressed into four syllables.

When she finally faces him, any trace of the smile she’s grown accustomed to is gone. He says, voice low and intent, “He courted you, did he not? Set his affections upon you in public, sent you flowers, called upon you multiple times? There is no justification, no honour in what he has done. Do not lessen his actions, nor place the guilt upon yourself. If anyone here is a fool, it is him.”

She can see how much he wants her to believe him. The angry set of his jaw, his furrowed brows—not at her, but _for_ her.

The part of her mind that had begun to map out all the ways in which her life could go wrong grows silent. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, anchoring herself with the sound of his voice and the warmth of his hand, and she starts from the beginning.

She had a plan, but plans can change. Mr. Keen will not be the end of her.

Elizabeth opens her eyes. Lord Reddington watches her still, waiting for her speak.

“You seem to know a great deal about me, my lord,” she says at last, with more composure than she feels.

He replies, without missing a beat, “I _am_ the biggest busybody in town, after all.”

She can’t help it: she smiles, and something in him seems to relax when she does. But her smile fades as her eyes are drawn, yet again, to Mr. Keen and Lady Margaret.

“There is still the rest of the Season,” he says, following her gaze. “Do not discount yourself so quickly.”

If he were interested in her, she thinks, this is when he would have made it clear. But he says nothing more. For the second time that night, she feels like a fool.

She needs to speak with Mr. Keen. She needs to speak with Meera, too, who in all likelihood has been eavesdropping on their entire conversation. Most of all, she wants to curl into her bed and not think about men, or marriage, or her dwindling future.

The thought of staying through to the end of the play, with the two of them in sight, is nearly enough to send her into a panic again. “Thank you for inviting me, my lord, but I… I think I’m going to go.”

As she stands, Meera rises, too. One look at her and Elizabeth knows that Meera heard every single word. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, please, stay,” Elizabeth says. “It’s all right. We’ll talk later. I promise.”

Meera frowns, brows creased together. “But Elizabeth—”

“I’ll be okay. I don’t want to draw attention from your aunt.”

Meera sits down with great reluctance. “How are you getting back?”

“You can take my carriage,” Lord Reddington says. “I’ll show you where it is.”

They make their way to the entrance. Lord Reddington glances at her multiple times, mouth parting as if to say something, but he remains silent. She doesn’t know what to make of his part in this, yet. With his answer had come more questions— _why are you doing this,_ for one, and _how are you connected with Mr. Keen,_ among others—but for today, she’s had enough.

Lord Reddington gives his instructions to the driver, and then helps her inside the carriage. Before he closes the door, he says, “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.” He looks genuinely contrite, and it gives her pause.

He’s still calling her by her given name. She doesn’t know what to make of that, either.

“For what?”

“I hadn’t known,” he says, “that this was your favourite play. There were… better ways I could have told you.”

It would be easy to displace all the hurt onto him. But after what he said earlier when he talked her down, she cannot find it in her to be angry with him—not when he isn’t the true source of it.

When she looks at him, she thinks of owed dances and botany books and the smile that she’s already begun to miss.

Elizabeth takes a deep breath and says,“You can make it up to me, then.”

He blinks, the tension in his face smoothed out into surprise. Then he smiles warmly.

“It’s a promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some contextual notes that I'd forgotten to add:  
>  **White's** is an exclusive gentleman's club and was also known as a gambling house, and it still exists today.  
>  **Sarah Siddons** was a famous actress, particularly during 1780-1800s, and formally retired in 1812.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone for reading! Constructive criticism, discussion, etc. are welcome.


End file.
